


I'll Grow Back Like A Starfish

by Somethingunknown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom!John, Dom/sub, F/M, M/M, Multi, No sexy times yet!, Only mild violence so far, S&M, Sibling Incest, Sub!ofc, but not really, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somethingunknown/pseuds/Somethingunknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Sherlock has a sister, which he of course hasn't told John. She is much the opposite of Sherlock, and will soon win the heart of John. Sherlock going between being extremely affectionate to being really vicious towards her. But who knows, maybe she'll convince Sherlock of the benefits of being Johns...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You know that he loves you, right?" I whisper into my army doctor's shoulder. "John, you must know that." "Sera, I..." he begins, but trails of. "I don't think that... that's something I know." 

There is a long pause before any of us speaks again. I contemplate sneaking an arm up over his chest, but I dare not push at his limits now. Instead I try to imagine how it would feel if he drew me into his arms: warm and soft. Nothing like Sherlock.

"Ah, well, I suppose you're right. He does - in his own way." John finally says. "In his own demanding, condescending way." He smiles, but I can feel him tensening. I wonder again how far I can push my point before he kicks me out of his bed. "He craves you. Like a starved child." I feel him turning away mentally, and it hurts me more than it should.  He turns over on his side. End of discussion.

_____________ 

Something is tugging at my arms, and I turn over. Minutes pass, and sleep slowly fades, as I am filled up with the room; the soft, warm bed and the not-quite-familiar smell of John. He is moving behind me.  "Nooooo..." I groan needily, "I need to sleep. Come back this instant!", authority lacking completely from my voice. "We're going out. Lestrade must've called with a case." I sink back. "Oh. Well off you go then." I want to watch him as he gets dressed but don't.

After dozing off a couple of times, I get up to do two hours of ballet practise, pushing the lounge furniture aside to make space. I do a proper warm-up, but somehow I end up goofing around to Nina Simone. When I am absolutely drenched in sweat and laughing crazily on the floor, I give up, and decide I need something new to do, lest I lose my mind. Something proper. Like writing a book. Or traveling around the world with no money. Which Mycroft, of course, would never allow. I could do some charity work somewhere; I want to do something useful. Not flail around, looking pretty and pulling off a perfect grand jeté. It's very nice and I enjoy the pursuit of perfection, but it doesn't lead anywhere other than old age. And so, right then and there, I decide that my dancing career has come to an end. Sherlock will be pleased. Mycroft will not.

I shower thoroughly and spend a long time afterwards drying myself off; ignoring the chill, rubbing the terry cloth on my muscled legs and protruding bones. I walk to the mirror and stand in front of it, unclothed, scrutinizing my body and face, wondering if John would think me pretty. I am petite, which he definitely likes, though perhaps a bit tall. I look at my weirdly shaped mouth, my bright eyes and my long dark hair; the water currently making it cling to my shoulders and breasts. 'Too thin', he would probably say. Though that is probably just his way of showing affection. Like a caveman needing to feed his family. I smile at myself in the mirror. I know he thinks I'm beautiful. And I know he thinks Sherlock is too. 

As I put my pyjamas back on I wonder what I will do with all my time. It is a very abrupt change, going from a 24-hour timetable to not really having anything to do. I could finally learn mandarin. I walk into the lounge and look over the familiar books. I take out chinese dictionary as well as the seven newly added books, carry them them to the couch and pour them into it. As I sit down and lean back comfortably I notice the skull, and go to bring that as well, setting it on the table facing me. "It's been a while, Yorick," I say and start on the first book.

I haven't even gotten started on the dictionary when Sherlock comes in and collapses on the couch, our legs crossing (since I've moved the rest of my body onto the floor). He pushes his books away from under him and they scatter on the floor beside me. The case was a flop, and he is frustrated with the detective inspector. I distract him for a while with questions on 'The Change Masters' until he settles a bit and I have annoyed myself with details that don't matter. 

Ten minutes later John walk in, looks briefly at the state of the lounge and turns to search for food in the fridge. I finally move on to the last book, which is the most addling of them all. "Who put this book here?" I ask out loud. John appears in the doorframe: "What book?" "Scarlett Feather," I answer him, not hiding my disapproval. "It's Sherlock's." He shrugs and returns to his tea-making. Not two seconds pass before Sherlock snaps: "Of course it's not mine. I didn't put it there, YOU did." He sighs loudly through his nose. "The book belongs to Mrs. Hudson, obviously." I immediately drop it and pick up the dictionary.

John returns from the kitchen, looking perfectly content, with three cups of tea. He pauses for a bit, sighs, and goes to place one next to me on the floor, then reaches over to hand Sherlock his tea, which he of course ignores. Sighing, he pulls the coffeetable back in its place and puts down the cup there. "Lestrade says he's sorry, and that the next time something comes up he will, of course, not contact you again." He smiles pleasantly at Sherlock, and pulls out his own chair where he sits down with his tea.

"He is unbelievably stupid." Sherlock complains. "How can he have been made Detective Inspector?" I frown at my book. "You now he can't help it, Sherlock. You must try to just let it go." He groans. I continue: "Do you think I should keep dancing or perhaps do charity work in Tanzania? Mycroft could help out with the politics." We both smile. He drops his leg off the couch and nudges me firmly with his foot. "Maybe you ought to stick with writing that book."   "Wo ye ai ni." He chuckles. He has always considered my writing aspirations silly at best (since I intend to write fiction).

"By the way John; did I remember to thank you for sleeping with me last night?" I tilt my head back to look at him upside down. "You did." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Several times." Maybe he thinks that Sherlock doesn't know, and that it would upset him somehow. "You needn't worry about Sherlock, he knows of course." I frown as I wait for his reaction. "I know he knows. He suggested it." He smiles one of his forced smiles and grabs the paper so he can hide his face. At this Sherlock retrieves his foot and turns around to continue his sulk, staring into the sofa. Hmm. That's new.

Time passes pleasantly after that, though I am surely the only one who feels that way. Mrs. Hudson comes up with a tray of biscuits to ask about the case, and has a nice conversation with John, which relaxes him a bit.

I help Sherlock set up an experiment in the kitchen, passing him instruments and discussing formulas. When he dismisses me I go to watch telly with John, but he seems to want my company even less than Sherlock. Regardless I sit down close to him and consider my approach. "Why are you uncomfortable with me? I am sorry about what I said - that is, I'm not, but just please tell how to make it better." He huffs in distant amusement. "I mean it. I will do practically anything to pr-" He pushes off the couch and turns to shout at me: "Then STOP acting so bloody... pleasing! I hate it when you try to manipulate me, BOTH OF YOU; thinking you can play..." He trails of as I slid to the floor on my knees, head bowed and completely silent. In the kitchen Sherlock goes quiet as well.

There is nothing. I just sit there with my arms at my sides and my head filled with Johns frustration. A hot tear spills down my cheek. I want to tell him I'm sorry, but I dare not make a sound. John looks thoroughly confused. "What are -" He backs away, frowns, and goes to grab his jacket. Not one minute later I hear the door to the street opening and closing. I begin to sob, not paying attention to Sherlock as he gets up and walks over to me. He is almost shaking with anger. "You silly, STUPID girl." He slaps me so hard, my vision blackens and I'm flung to the floor, then turns around and walks back to his experiment. I lie there for a while, boneless, not bothering to wipe my face. When I cannot stand the emptiness any longer, I stand up on my quivering legs and walk to the kitchen as if in a dream. I dump myself next to his chair and lean my head against his thigh. "I am so sorry. I thought..." I sob quietly. "Don't," he mumbles.

Everything goes sour from my little stunt. Sherlock is furious. He takes it out on Mrs. Hudson too, when she comes up to ask about what happened. He is so hateful, he makes her eyes well up and she flees the appartment. I feel tired and guilty. "You've made her hurt with your inconsideration, Sherlock. She was perfectly innoscent. You should go down and apologize to her." He doesn't reply, which gives me false hope: "You of all people should be able to hold your emotions in check, and not let them cause such trouble. Mummy would be upset with you."  "Oh, please," he sneers. "Who was it, that made John so upset with their emotional outpour, that he is currently spending the night with Sarah?" His voice is dripping with disdain. "At least I am trying." I mumble and turn to walk to the bedroom. Everything feels hopeless.

_____________ 


	2. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera wants to make up for her mistake, but she might mess that up as well. She does however make up with Sherlock - as that goes - and tries to get her life back in order. Also, is John acting weird?
> 
> Fyi, the first paragraph is slightly gory..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so I'm horrible at keeping an interest in anything, and I thought this might be different, but alas, no. So - now I've posted what I have written so far (literally, which is why the chapter ends a bit abruptly), I'll edit the tags, and maybe return to this work later. Feel free to comment though, or something.
> 
> So to sum up - don't expect any more chapters for now...

I stand naked in the room, covering my small breasts with my hands. There is something completely wrong with me. With what my right hand tentatively covers. The skin underneath is humid and the outer layer sticks and comes off with my hand as I remove it. There is a deep hole in my breast, just left of my nipple. I can see straight into my heart (which is silly since its location is anatomically incorrect). It is blood red, raw, frail and pumping very weakly. It's all wrong. The different layers of skin has rotted away, dotted with white mold; rotten, from being humid and shut in for so long. I feel disgusting, but there is nothing I can do: I can't remove it whithout killing myself. It makes me panic. Still, I know it is a dream, so it shouldn't really matter, but when I open my eyes and wake up and realise there is nothing there, I still feel the disgust. The detest, the shame and the deep pain. I cry.

For a long time I just lie there on my back, tears dropping uncomfortably into my ears. I haven't felt so alone since The Goodbye. I want to go and tell Sherlock about it and make him comfort me, but it's too late anyway. I feel paranoid so I refrain from falling asleep again.

As soon as the sun rises I get up and pack myself in layers of clothing to keep myself from being reminded of the dream. I need to shop for more clothes soon, as the stack in my sportscase only goes so deep. I finally flee from the emtiness of the bedroom. Sherlock is thinking on the couch, where he has had a couple of hours of sleep. He can tell about the dream, but neither of us says anything. 

Eventually John comes back, and for the first time, I witness his uncanny ability to forgive and forget. He doesn't mention what has passed; doesn't want to talk about it. But he isn't mad at all. I am in awe. I decide to do anything in my power to make it up to him.

'Ok,' I think as I look him over, 'so, what will please him?' A massage for the cricked neck and shoulders and a good, cooked breakfast. And perhaps some sex, since he clearly didn't accomplish that with Sarah. The only question is how far to go, and how obvious I can be about it. 

"John," I say cautiously. "I was just about to make breakfast," Sherlock huffs from the couch, "would you like some?"  "Yes, thank you." He eyes Sherlock suspiciously, before he sits down in his chair with a sigh and starts on the daily paper. I smile and consider for a moment how unfair it is, that I don't have instant acces to Sherlocks memory castle, as he would surely have stored extensive information about John's favourite dishes. Just as this thought has crossed my mind, John turns his head and adds: "If you don't mind, I'll have some bacon and eggs. Plase." I grin.

I make the traditional breakfast table with bacon and eggs (proper bacon and eggs), cereal, toast with butter and jam and cheese and, of course, Johns faourite tea. I set the table and call for John who arrives just in time to have his eggs served before him. I set the frying pan back on the table, and is about to consider my next move, when he frowns at the table. I panic immediately, realising I have forgotten something. But what?  "Are you not going to eat with me?" He points at the empty space across the table.  "Yes of course," I say and busy myself fetching a plate, before I sit down, forced to face him. He watches me intently as I help myself to the cereal.  "Thank you Sera. This is wonderful." I look at him briefly and feel the arteries in my face expand slightly. Sherlock turns up out of nowhere and sits down beside me. I get up automatically and fetch him a plate as well.

We all eat with more or less enthusiasm. I want to keep up a pleasant conversation with John, but I have never really been one for small talk. I can't think of anything relevant to say, that's sure not to offend John or drive him away in some way, so I keep quiet. Neither Shelock nor me eats much, whereas John barely finds the time to look up from from his plate. It pleases me.

When John has finished, he pushes back in his chair and exlaims: "That was the best breakfast I have ever had. Really. It was absolutely perfect, Sera." He looks very pleased, wearing his genuine contented smile, eyes glinting. (How does he even do that?) Sherlock smiles too to himself as he goes to check up on the state of his current kitchen table experiment. John sighs, still wearing that glint, and says : "All that's missing now is an experiment-free kitchen, a couple hours of massage, a good book, some tea and perhaps a million pounds." He winks at me, and puts his hands on the table to get up, but I have already moved to stand behind him. I know it is one those things he says in jest, but it is too easy really, I think, as I bury my hands in his muscle. With my fingers pressing on those hard knots, he collapses on himself, not able to move anymore. Perfect. He sighs deeply.

He is very broad; so broad I can't grip around his shoulders to properly hold them still as I press my thumbs against him. His muscles are hard beneath the soft skin, but a different kind of hard than Sherlocks rock-like muscles. I want to bury my face in his neck, as it sways just so, right in front of my eyes. Tan, warm and so near. It makes me think of the night before, where I slept in his bed. Sure, he woke me up many times with his jostling, but it was just... Being permitted to watch him in such a fragile state was awesome (he has that effect). It made me feel the urge to protect him, and the desire to keep him for myself. 

As I work over a particulary mean knot just beneath the shoulderblade, he suddenly stiffens and groans loudly, and it sends a shiver through me: a heat and a catch in my breath. My knees are week and I feel like kneeling. I steady myself again and continue. Some twenty minutes pass until he gets up and thanks me. He forces himself to look in my eyes and smile. It confuses me; it is supposed to be easy. He feels uncomfortable and in turn, I feel uncomfortable too. Then he simply moves away and goes to his chair to pick up that book.

My spirits sink at that, but I push it away. It doesn't matter. What matters is, that he is happy. I start clearing as much as the table I can, while making him more tea and ignoring Sherlock. As I near Johns chair, cup in hand, I can only see that back of his head. When I reach the table and set it down, I look up at him, eager to read his reaction. He looks at me surprised and stands right up: "Please don't do this, Sera. You are very sweet, but I can make my own tea." Then he sits down just as abruptly and it feel as if everything slows down until it comes to a complete stop. I shuffle towards the bedroom, all in one long breath of silence. I do not see the kitchen, I do not open the door nor hear Sherlock get up. Only when I have closed the door behind me, does the world come back, crashing down on me. I feel everything well up, my legs give out and I crumble to the floor. My breath is bearly there, my nails clawing at the floor and the memory of my dream returns. 

Sherlock enters shortly, and sits himself on the bed. "Hurt me," I manage. He frowns at me. "I think that went quite well. Not as well as it could have, but well enough to ensure progress in the matter." I wince and he collects his thoughts. "I have studied him this morning, and he seems to be experiencing a doublesided moral crisis. He is attracted to your fysique as well as your obvious, submissive nature, but he feels it is morally wrong, with you and I being so closely related, AND also because he has not yet reconciled with his sexually dominant tendencies, and recoils - not at the thought - but at the idea the HE should be the one to love you, when he feels he is bad for you; what with his urge to posess you and cause you physical pain - you get the idea. Your difference in age could also quite possibly be a moral issue for him."  "Oh." I pause for a long time, still a heap on the floor. "How sure are you?" He squints at me, "95%." Oh. Relief washes through me, and a moment later, worry too. It seems like a lot of obstacles. I get up and slowly climb up onto his lap, and he just holds me until my tears dry. "I really have missed you. Please stay with me tonight?" He kisses my cheek wetly. "Of course."

He stays for a bit to think, fingers absently caressing my scalp, but eventually he leaves me for the third stage in his experiment. I lie on the bed for a long time, trying to focus on the task ahead. I must make my intentions clear to John, since he seems to think, that I am trying to manipulate him (because of my darling brothers no doubt). I'll take it one step at a time, as to not overwhelm him. Perhaps tell him that I do all these things to please him, because I really like him, and that I am interested in a romantic relationship with him. It seems stupidly plain and obvious, but - as I try to teach Sherlock - one should never underestimate the stupidity of normal people. Then I must assure him that Sherlock doesn't mind, and furthermore, that it is silly to think he is too old for me. I will face John, and soon, but there are some things I need to sort out first.

I turn to look at the watch on the night stand; it's well past noon already. I force myself out of the bed, dress myself properly, then continue to sneek out unnoticed by John. First, I head for The Royal Ballet, then I go shopping for new clothes.

The wind gushes in my face, as I open the door. I tie my blood red scarf around my neck, turn up my collar and step out on the kerb to hail a cab, but immediately regret: the walk will do me good, and I still have the time. It is very bright and cold, and soon my face is stiff with it, but my body becomes hot with the excorcise. I reach the Ballet after some thirty minutes and hurry inside. The receptionist recognizes me, so isn't hard to get through to the head of HR.

I have never met him before, but he knows who I am and seems very kind. He doesn't, however, refrain from throwing a hysterical fit when he discovers that I am here for a teaching job. He starts babling about my 'fantastic work' with l'Opéra de Paris and promises me a position among their solo artists, and I'm only 31, that's no age at all, no reason at all to retire so soon. I kindly decline his offer, but he won't calm down until I promise to reconsider. I insist on giving him my resume, and he promises to call back as soon as he knows when something's open.

I walk out of there somewhat more confidant, and with a settled feeling in my stomach. As I push through the heavy doors, I look up to see a very familiar black car pull up by the kerb. My brother steps out of the car, holding his umbrella in one hand as he holds the door open for me with the other. He looks stern, but I know better. "Mycroft!" I excalim and run towards him, throwing myself into him, and hug him fiercely. He is not pleased, but I haven't seen him since I got back. When I pull off he smiles politely and guides me into the car. The driver takes off immediately, and I lean back into the leatherbound seats. 

"Congratulations on your latest succes in Paris. I am sorry I have not come to see you perform, but I am sure you were spectacular." He finally gives me a genuine smile, and I rest my head on his shoulder. "So, is our humble Ballet to be graced with your eminent dancing? If you wish, I could put in a good word for you? I hear they are considering a rendition of Giselle. The lead role should suit you perfectly, don't you think?"

Even though these are all retorical questions, I answer him promtly: "I love you. I've missed you. No. No, thank you. And you would know."  He frowns and looks at me properly. "Well, you certainly weren't there visiting old friends." Then an unpleasant emotion flashes in his eyes. "You were there for a teaching job. Why on earth would you do something like that?" And then, "I don't like you hanging around Sherlock and John. I know you've missed him, but he is a bad influence on you." He pauses at my silent protest. "You should come stay with us at the house. I am not too busy these times, and I am sure Elizabeth would love some female company." I give a slight, unvoluntary sneer at the thought. It's not that I dislike his what-ever-she-is, she just... creeps me out. "Don't lie. You are never home. I want a job, and I want to stay with Sherlock and John," I say, determined to defy my brother.

He gives me a court smile. "You've never had a real job before. You've never taught before. And while Sherlock and John may care for you, they just do not have the extra space you require. I do. Come stay at the house." This is a direct order. I cannot turn him down. He is my brother. I cannot. He has my best interest, he always has, and I know it. I feel the tension ozing from him, his silent authority, as I peek into the abyss of disappointment I'm currently headed towards. I absolutely hate to disobey, especially authoritives, especially family ones. "I want to stay with Sherlock and John," I say quietly, wringing my hands, "until they kick me out." He sighs, and it hurts. I watch him turn to look out the window. "Please," I breathe, but he doesn't even move until we pull up at Baker Street. He steps out elegantly and holds the door for me. "Mycroft," I say apologetically as I step out of the car, "I wasn't on my way back yet, I need to do some shopping first." "Yes, new clothes," he gestures at the driver as he appears with two fat plastic bags. "I'll have the other sent to you shortly. I'll see you soon." I stand on my toes and kiss his cheek, then I take the bags from the slightly confused driver and I walk alone into the building without looking back. I feel distant.

_____________

As I walk through the hallway into the kitchen, I notice Johns coat is missing. "Nightshift," Sherlock observes without even looking up from the microscope. My brother. My brilliant, beutiful, tactless and stupid brother.  I wish that he wasn't so defiant. So cruel and cold towards the ones he love. Especially John. Ever patient John. My John. Our John.

John. John. John. John.

I let myself drop onto the couch, and turn my face towards the back. I feel so alone. Why can't I just be normal person and have a normal job and have friends. My superviser used to say that I give off an aura of superiority that keeps people away, which is odd since I am the most small, clinging, needy creature I know. I guess I am odd. I try to picture being friends with one of the girls from the academy, but they were all so... boring. And the few one that weren't, I dared not speak to, for fear they wouldn't like me. 

"Stop worrying so loudly. They will hire you," Sherlock demands from the kitchen. I smile. I love it when he deduces me wrong. Just me though. In fact, with other people, it's very unpleasant. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your comments. This is my first fic, after reading tons, so please be honest, I have no idea how good/bad my writing is. More will follow of course..
> 
> By the way, there will be no actual incest. They're just have a really wierd relationship, and are just about as close as Sherlock and Mycroft are not.
> 
> And of course most the credit goes to the people behind BBC Sherlock. I FREAKIN' LOVE YOU!!!
> 
> Ahem. So there you go. Have a nice one :)


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